


The Covid Chronicles

by itsyourownpersonaljesus



Category: Geography (Anthropomorphic)
Genre: Ancient Egypt, Brance, COVID-19, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Corona Virus - Freeform, Coughing, Current Events, Dreams and Nightmares, Fever, Fever Dreams, Fluff, Friendship/Love, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, I have no self control, ITS THE SAME THING, Idiots in Love, Introspection, Light Angst, M/M, Mutual Pining, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Other Ships Not Mentioned in Tags, POV Alternating, Sick Character, Sickfic, Skype dates, Social Isolation, Tags May Change, Temporary Character Death, Timeline What Timeline, and other stuff i'm sure but i only have the first three chapters written out, but probably just be added as chapters come out, cause it's a current event lmao, europeans in love, i honestly can't believe im writing this, im me after all, in the second chapter, its a series of oneshots btw, mentioned - Freeform, potentially, theyre gay AND european
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-05
Updated: 2020-04-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:00:46
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,188
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23487214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/itsyourownpersonaljesus/pseuds/itsyourownpersonaljesus
Summary: There's a pandemic sweeping the world at the moment, and we're checking in on some of our favorite suffering nations.Every chapter is a different oneshot within the same corona virus timeline, if you have any specific characters or scenarios you'd like to see that arent already tagged, feel free to make suggestions, i have some time to kill after all lmao
Relationships: America & Canada (Anthropomorphic), Canada & United States (Anthropomorphic), England & France (Anthropomorphic), England/France (Anthropomorphic), France & Italy (Anthropomorphic), France & Spain (Anthropomorphic), France & United Kingdom (Anthropomorphic), France/United Kingdom (Anthropomorphic), Italy & Spain & France (Anthropomorphic), Italy & Spain (Anthropomorphic), Italy/Spain (Anthropomorphic)
Comments: 12
Kudos: 32





	1. A Handful of Constants (China)

**Author's Note:**

> "but PJ," i hear you say, "this isn't solely focused on brance, whats going on??" and to that i say, i have no idea, i just wanted to write sickfics man dont judge me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> China, one of, if not the oldest nation still living, reflects on the world as it is, and as it was, as he draws his last breaths, not for the first time, and far from the last time.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> its basically just a character study of China, i figured who better to start this fic, and i turned out to really fall in love with him in writing this so,, uhm, black plague fic coming someday im sure
> 
> also, quick timeline thing, this chapter would be set closer to the beginning of this whole outbreak, some time in early march i think

China had always carried a fondness for the moon, though that surprised very few. It was lustrous and constant, a consistent cycle, and only the young took no comfort in consistency. China was anything but young, and patterns tended to be easily recognized after thousands of years. 

Patterns in the night sky, patterns in the seasons, the leaves on the trees and the flowers that grew there, patterns in art and music, patterns in government, in people, in wars, and in pandemics. Patterns in life, and patterns in death. Patterns in balance.

Egypt had known that well, better than most even, better than China had. Not the Egypt of today, of course, but the Egypt of _then_. The Egypt of his youth, the Egypt of beauty, and power, and balance. There were few civilizations in his memory that he missed, but Egypt was one of them, the world today was missing that certain sense of grace and dignity. Even China had started to lose that sense, the centuries wearing on his mind and heart alike, dealing with the rise and fall of European imperialism, their constant feuds and quarrels (yet another constant in his life), the foolhardy, youthful naivete of young nations (one in particular came to mind), it seemed their world had lost its poise and prestige, its grandeur, its honor. Though those may only be qualities of the ancients.

Regardless, there was a shifting circle of influence in the world, always on the move, and while its journey was slow, it was obvious to those smart enough to study the past, and those old enough to have lived through it. It had been him, not so long ago, then it had been Europe, and those young, miserable, determined and desperate nations had held onto it as hard as they could, relishing it, smoking it in their pipes like opium, they couldn’t have had enough of it if they'd had it all, stroking themselves off to the mere idea of all that power at their fingertips. So deprived were they in youth of any sense of power at all, so frantic were they to grow out of the shadow of Rome that they nearly tore themselves apart to do so. A pack of wild dogs fighting for scraps of land and wealth in the name of their feeble god.

The oldest of them couldn’t continue after the last war, the youngest couldn’t fathom a sense of power for themselves, and the great, sickly, slimy beast retreated back into its cave, truly believing it had grown larger, grander, and though the beast had shed its skin for a new one, the blood ran the same black. And the New World took center stage. China had never wanted time to move faster than when he had to listen to America, inexperienced, crude, brash America, so like his European roots, yet somehow increasingly grating and obnoxious. Europe had respected China, at the very least, he was admired in their culture. America had no such interest in the dignity of the ancients, looked only to the future, regardless of the pasts of others or his own, unless it involved his hypocritical efforts against colonization and the formation of empires. America cared too much about the World’s opinion of him and not enough about the World.

Power was showing signs of circling back to China now, he could see it, but it could so easily slip from his grasp in favor of others, and America would not let go of it so easily, he liked it far too much. A few key allies would work in China’s favor, if he found them to be secure and tolerable enough. Russia was not terrible company, at the end of the day. 

There were cycles to all things, pestilence included. Which is why he was shivering with fever, racked with coughs, breaths rattling in and out of his lungs. Such atrocious timing, he lamented, but it was indeed time for it to occur, they tended to show up every century or so, and this one had started with him, as seemed to be the trend with the truly terrifying ones, or at least _that_ one. That one, with not one, but two strong waves in his own population, scores of bodies in villages and cities, red turbaned revolutionaries in the streets, the coldest winters, the rats, the filth, the scent of death hanging in the air like cobwebs, sticky and cloying. 

This one was much cleaner, he would admit.

It didn’t change the fact that he was dying, which was rather pathetic, the death count in this pandemic was only over a couple thousand at this point. Perhaps his dying was symbolic, Nature had an example to make out of him, he supposed, and who was he to question her, in her infinite time and wisdom.

He’d died many hundreds of times before, never a pleasant experience, but a necessary one. A show of power, victory and loss, theirs was an existence meant for martyrism. They died with their people, in their struggles and hardships, in their wars and plagues, and they were the ones cursed to continue on, to move forward, to remember, while the dead got to forget, or at the very least they got to rest in their remembrance. China didn’t rest, there was too much to do, too much to achieve, to accomplish, to remember, so that even in death he found himself dogged by insatiable exhaustion that he was never truly free from.

He was lying awake in his bed, staring at the soft cream colored ceiling, breathing shallow breaths of cold night air, through the windows he could see a great expanse of stars, far removed from the capital of his country. He had never grown tired of Beijing, could never grow tired of her great and shining heights, but the city was far too busy for his old soul, and he chose to retire his body and mind outside of its borders, though much of his life was still spent there, working. He, of course, didn’t need to work, having accrued a large physical fortune over his millennia, as many others like him did, but found much of his youthful vigor returned when he had something to do.

He wondered what he would do after he died this time, a query not many people tended to have, but one that China had pondered many times before. He supposed, if he died here, alone, and no one came to visit him in the hours or days after his death, he might simply continue as though it hadn’t happened at all. The paperwork surrounding new identities was a pain these days, after all, and it wasn’t as if he was required to reinvent himself for every instance of the end of his never truly ending life. Some of the younger countries, the centuries old ones, claimed they would live forever, wanted to even, believed that the permanent end of their lives would be a catastrophe in the largest sense of the word. Some of the others, the ones that were older, but not old enough for China to think them old, wanted nothing more than a true end to it all, he could see in their eyes, having once wanted that for himself. China, though, no longer had it in him to particularly care either way. While he was still here, he would fight for power as others did, seek to change the world to fit his image, as was the goal of any ambitious nation, but, if while on this journey he happened to perish, then he would greet the soundless void of his own afterlife with the embrace of an old friend, a return to what once was, and what again will be.

But this wouldn’t be the end of him.

No, China had seen empires and nations and people rise to heights unimagined, and fall to depths unknown, and he had survived, and would continue to do so for as long as he was permitted to. He would not let this plague be the end of him and he would not allow himself to fade into the oblivion of the lost empires and civilizations that came before even him. Even if he fell in the next ten, hundred, thousand, million years, he would not fade from the memories of the Earth. His impact was undeniable, unshakable, and unequivocal. 

And, as he took his last, but not final, breaths, he looked out the window, to the moon that hung low in the sky, and listened to the silence of the night, the shadowy scenery. The night sky smiled down at him, yet another old friend China had had the pleasure of knowing over thousands of years, the moon shining upon the earth in tranquil support of his endeavors, his ambitions, his footprint, his life. 

With the loyalty, the very blessing, of the Heavens on his side, China’s heart beat for the last, but not final, time, and he greeted Death as his eldest friend, the one he’d seen since the beginning, and the last one he would ever see.

He died, but he would not perish.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the first three chapters of this thing are already written so you'll be seeing chapter 2 in a couple days, its a lot longer than this one, and i had an unexpected amount of fun writing it
> 
> thanks for reading my fellow degenerates, i will return soon with more anthropomorphic lines on a map


	2. An Unexpected Visit (Italy)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Italy, in the midst of suffering through the latest strain of the Corona Virus and this most recent pandemic, is visited by his closest friends in his time of need, and perhaps notices some things he hadn't before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> whats up gang, a quick word: this chapter was heavily inspired by a work by DownWithTheThrone, which you can find [Here](https://archiveofourown.org/works/23337352/chapters/55905694). I highly recommend you check it out, it's a good read, and the spain/italy in their fic is more explicit than the hints i give to it here
> 
> also, as you may know, im fluent in english (and limited french), and that's about it, BUT! in this chapter i imagine that these three probably speak anything but english, whether its french, spanish, italian, or even latin, i just want everyone to know that these ex-roman idiots are not going to give england the respect of speaking english outside his company or with each other, theyre like a little exclusive romance language club

Italy might’ve been dying. Fading in and out of consciousness, body fighting for rest, mind longing for wakefulness, ragged breaths rattling in his lungs, coughs racking his body, death didn’t seem so bad. 

The sun seemed to stream constantly through the window in his bedroom, though maybe his world was just never truly dark. The sheets on his bed were fresh and white, but that’s not how he remembered them. He remembered they were old linens, yellowed with age, and bloodstained with coughs. Sometimes, when he dragged himself back to some degree of awareness, he could swear the tips of his fingers were black. It scared him. 

Cold and shivering, he retreated further into his cocoon of blankets and sheets, feeling then overwhelmingly flushed and hot. Disorienting dreams melding and mixing with glimpses of the real world, time seeming to slow and warp. He spoke with the ghosts in his past and the skeletons in his closet and lamented, in the end, that he was utterly alone in his hillside home. 

There came an incessant noise, he could not be sure from where nor when it started, but it was ringing in his head and echoing through his mind. It was his paintbrush against the wooden slats of his easel, ridding it of excess water, it was a cart of bodies traveling on a rocky road, it was soldiers at his door, it was gunshots through the air, artillery shells, black boots on concrete floors, a fight, a betrayal, an old friend, an enemy, a victim. He opened his eyes. 

Late afternoon sun streamed through his bedroom window. There was knocking at his door. 

He got up slowly, unsteadily, the wooden floor cool on the soles of his feet, shaking hands pushing himself up off the mattress. The shifting of his clothes against his oversensitive skin was almost painful and his head pounded with his heartbeat, he felt nearly too weak to walk. But he pushed forward regardless, wrapping himself in a woven throw blanket he kept at the end of his bed, he walked out of his bedroom and through the living room to the front door. He leaned against the door frame, hand on the knob, and just breathed for a moment, so exhausted and winded was he after only the handful of steps to the door. His eyes slipped shut, a couple weak coughs made their way up his throat, before the knocking came again, loud beside him, and Italy flinched back, opening his eyes blearily.

He opened the door, blinking rapidly into the onslaught of light from the outdoors and the forms of France and Spain on his porch, who exclaimed upon seeing him, “Mon ami, you look dreadful!” and “Italia! How are you mi amigo?” respectively. Italy only blinked again, dazed and confused, his fever addled mind unable to connect the dots as to why they were here at all.

“You two,” He coughed, putting a hand on the door frame to steady himself as he swayed where he stood, “shouldn’t...be here.” He shook his head, which only added to the dizzy, queasy feeling settling in his core, and spreading along his limbs, “Why...are you here?” It was getting harder to focus, to stand, to...keep his eyes open. 

He felt his hand slip from the door frame, unable to do much beyond mentally prepare himself for the impact with the floor soon to come. Though, strangely, he didn’t hit the floor, and instead felt arms reach under his, steadying him, and, supporting Italy’s mostly dead weight against his chest, Italy realized France had caught him, “Woah, Italie, take it easy my friend.” His voice sounded far away, as if underwater, “Espagne, help me get him back to bed.”

Italy heard the footsteps of Spain, the other striding quickly to where France was hardly holding Italy above the floor. He felt a large, cool hand against his forehead and opened his eyes to see Spain kneeling next to him, worried frown marring his features and eyebrows creased in concern, the other’s soft brown eyes stared into Italy’s own, never breaking his gaze even while he spoke to France above them, “He’s burning up.”

Italy couldn’t actually see France’s face from this angle, but knew him well enough to know that based on the almost monumental sigh the other gave, he was certainly rolling his eyes, “Oui, je sais, can we please get him into bed now and off of me?”

Italy watched Spain chuckle at that, and he felt himself smiling weakly as well, “Por supuesto, Francia, I know your frail arms won’t keep him up much longer.” He stood up, Italy mourning the loss of his kind eyes, his close presence.

France mumbled a quiet “Connard,” under his breath, though there was no real emotion behind it, as he and Spain shared Italy’s weight between them, managing to mostly carry him back to his bedroom, helping him back into bed, arranging the blankets around him. Italy sighed, blinking slowly, trying in vain to follow events from one to the other. He watched France reach up, brushing some of the hair from Italy’s forehead, his usual careless, carefree, ‘laissez-faire’ demeanor gone, replaced drawn concern, sharing an anxious look with Spain. “I’ll go make sure the door is closed, grab a glass of water.” He said, patting Spain’s shoulder on the way out.

Spain reached over then, feeling Italy’s forehead, though it could not have possibly changed that drastically in the last few minutes. It had been minutes, right? Italy tried to clear his throat, coughing again, his headache growing worse, he looked up at Spain, rasping weakly, “You shouldn’t...shouldn’t be here Spagna, it’s-”

“Shh, shh, I know Italia, I know,” Spain spoke softly, “But I’d rather be here to see you through this thing and get it myself, than have you waste away on your own.” His hand moved to cup Italy’s cheek, thumb running down his temple and over his cheekbone, “Get some rest now, mi amigo.”

And sleep claimed him again, carrying his drifting consciousness over waves of dreams and past memories. He was a vast empire, he was a child, staring at a frail, dying man on a bed, he was a scattering of kingdoms, he was dying, and he was _living_ again. He was painting a young male figure, lounging on barren furniture, and he was trapped in a canvas, unable to do anything but watch the brush paint over him. He was cooking a meal for a king who never ate and he was dipping his toes in the Mediterranean for the first time.

He was sitting up in bed, in the midst of a violent coughing fit, each shattering echo tearing through his throat and aching deep in his lungs, the room was dimly lit by the lamp at his bedside table and there was a hand on his back, rubbing soothing circles, the quiet voice of France murmuring softly to him. The fit eventually subsided and Italy was able to turn and look at France, running his hands under his eyes briefly to catch the tears that had fallen. France stared back at him, dark blue eyes worried under a lidded gaze, continuing to rub his hand down Italy’s back, coaxing him to drink some of the water from the glass in hand, which Italy accepted gratefully, “Feeling alright now, Italie?” He asked gently, words not breaking the quiet of the room, merely skating across it. Italy only nodded minutely, letting France guide him back down, not trusting himself to speak but wanting to ask questions regardless. His head felt a bit clearer now.

France seemed to sense his curiosity, because he spoke again, “It’s 2:47 in the morning, I forced Spain out to the couch since he wasn’t getting any sleep sitting here angsting over you. You’ve been asleep since about four now, though none of it looked particularly restful,” France smiled wryly before continuing, “Are you at all hungry?”

Italy shook his head and France nodded, “Alright, then try to get some more rest. Do you want me to get anything for you?” 

Italy shook his head again, to which France replied, “Well that makes things rather easy on me, doesn’t it?” He said, smiling, Italy weakly returning the expression, once again feeling the warm embrace of rest crawl over him. His eyes slipping shut once again, he heard France whisper “Bonne nuit, Italie.” And he was once again asleep.

The void claimed him like an old friend, and he went willingly, holding as tightly as he could onto the dreamless, soundless, sightless slumber he’d been so deprived of for hours, days, had it been weeks? It was hard to tell. He felt nothing, he was no longer cold, or hot, his head didn’t hurt anymore, and his limbs floated numbly around him. It was dark, and it might’ve been the most beautiful sight in Italy’s eyes, if he hadn’t already seen such wonders of the world as his own sky over the Mediterranean Sea. Or the Colosseum in its fully glory, or the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, or the masterful works of Da Vinci, or the Atlantic from the Portuguese coast, or the Notre Dame at sunset, or Spain captaining a great ship setting off for the New World, dressed in an open chested, flowing white shirt with long flowering sleeves and those tight dark pants that flattered his figure, that was a memory Italy often looked back to, even at inopportune moments. 

So, maybe the void wasn’t the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen, but it was a welcome occurrence after his strange dreams and vague remembrances of times long past, and he felt it to be such a terrible shame when he began to hear voices around him, they could be talking or they could be arguing.

They surrounded him, incomprehensible to him, muffled but constant. It sounded like they were arguing, it must be something important for such a large meeting. When did he arrive at a meeting? He looked around, faces of recognizable allies were hard to make out, mouths not seeming to quite fit around the words being said. Someone was standing, yelling, but there was no volume change in the words. There was a hand on his shoulder, gone as soon as it had come. France was looking at him from across the table, the only clear face in this sea of people. Completely still, just...looking at Italy, shoulders still slouched despite his obvious efforts, hands resting on the table in front of him, shaking only slightly, staring at Italy as if... As if...

France opened his mouth to speak, and Italy imagined the words would be harsh, wincing in anticipation for it. It was a war, they had been enemies, he could not be blamed for his government's choices, his people’s will, he had...He’d made it better, he’d switched sides, right? He hadn’t known how bad it would all get, if he’d known... “What else can we do?” France said finally, though the words were not what Italy had expected.

“I don’t know, I just...” Italy was in Madrid, Spain’s house on the outskirts of Madrid, he recognized by the paneling of the walls, and the furniture in the room, he’d been here many times. Spain was in front of him, pacing back and forth in front of the fireplace, though it was unlit, the Spanish summer sun beating down on the city. They were in the dining room, the formal one, not a chair out of place. Spain was speaking to him, “I don’t want to leave him alone, not now that we are able to stay by his side.” It was then that Spain looked at Italy, walked over to him, grabbing him by the shoulders, and Italy had such a strong sense of nostalgia he was nearly positive this was a memory, though the dialogue didn’t fit with the words his mind supplied, the scene discordant and confusing, “I’m sure you remember what is was to die, ill and alone.”

“Spagna, I-” Italy whispered, disorientated and disconcerted, he was falling suddenly, Spain yelling something, but he couldn’t hear it. He closed his eyes before he hit the floor, but instead kept falling, falling, falling.

Falling.

He felt his limbs again, laying in his bed, under a heavy set of blankets, he grimaced and turned his face down into the pillow below him. There was a hand on his forehead, and fingers threading through his hair, and Italy felt compelled to open his eyes.

Squinting into the sunlit room, he saw France and Spain above him, Spain sitting next to Italy’s bed, and France beside him, hand on his shoulder, “Bonjour Italie,” France’s tone was quiet, as one might speak to avoiding waking a young child, “How do you feel?”

Italy felt...like he imagined the tower in Pisa might feel in the next few centuries. Worn down, wrung out, and as though a strong breeze might knock him down for good. His arms and legs were leaden weights and his throat was terribly dry, there was an awful taste in his mouth that could only mean he slept for an incredibly long time. But, despite all that, he felt better than he’d been feeling, better than he’d felt in a while.

“Less like I’m going to die now.” All three of them winced in unison at the rough quality of Italy’s voice, not least of all Italy himself. He sounded like he’d taken a cheese grater to his throat. “I’d love some water.”

Spain grabbed the glass on the nightstand quickly, helping Italy sit up and holding the glass steady for him, his presence a physical support and an emotional comfort, and when Italy had had enough, Spain arranged the pillows behind him so he could lean against them and remain somewhat upright. Italy sighed, looking at his friends, who’d been so kind to stay with him through all this, even at their own risk. France’s kind, concerned smile, and Spain’s unconcealed worry, his compassionate brown eyes, they looked at him as the closest of companions, two of the nations on Earth with which he felt the closest, the most mutual experience, the most shared history. 

Maybe their relationship wasn’t the poster child of compatible and functional friendship, there’d been many instances of a rather poor dynamic between them in times past, just as they themselves had committed many atrocious deeds, but they were learning, growing, perhaps slower than mortal men, but nonetheless they learned. And Italy was so glad that they were still here, still believed in him, cared for him, loved him, as friends do, even after all this time. It was enough to bring tears to his eyes, but now wasn’t the time for the luxury of tears, he was surely quite dehydrated from all this.

He glanced between the two of them, “How long was I out?”

Spain looked away from him, grimacing slightly, while France practically snickered, which had Spain turning to glare at him with lightning speed, “Almost two straight days Italie,” France said, ignoring Spain’s scowl in favor of looking at Italy, “We were starting to get worried.” He winked.

“Oh.” Italy breathed, unsure of how else he might respond, glancing back to Spain, who grabbed one of Italy’s hands from where it rested on top of the sheets.

France cleared his throat, looking between the two of them in the way only France could, like he knew something you didn’t, but would never tell you what it was and deprive himself the chance to be smug about it. “Italie, my dearest companion, do you think you feel well enough to eat something?” France asked, with one final, pointed look towards Spain.

Italy thought about it a moment, if he felt well enough to eat, if he was hungry enough to (he was), and if he would be able to get through the meal without crying in happiness and giving France an even bigger ego than he already had. His food wasn’t even _that_ good, Italy’s was far better, but the mere idea of a meal after so long deprived was bliss and euphoria in its purest form. He nodded enthusiastically and France grinned, patting Italy’s knee through the pile of blankets on his way out of the room, leaving Italy and Spain alone in the room.

Italy offered him a reassuring smile, the other so obviously still worried, Italy wanted to convince him it would be alright, though it was strange that he was the one trying to reassure another, he was sure he looked like death warmed over. “I do feel better Spanga, you don’t have to look so constipated.” He joked.

Spain grimaced again, “That’s not- I’m-” He sighed, “We were just worried about you, _I_ was worried about you. And, I think we all get a little overly anxious about this kind of thing, ever since... _that_ one,” Spain stoked Italy’s hand with his thumb, expression softening, “I just didn’t want you to go through it alone.”

“Oh mi amico, that’s so sweet,” Italy cooed, causing a flush to crawl up Spain’s cheeks, he was rather charming when he was embarrassed, Italy thought, “Thank you.”

“It’s,” Spain coughed awkwardly, “It’s nothing Italia, don’t mention it.” He looked like he wanted to say more, though Italy couldn’t be sure.

Italy turned his hand over, intertwined his fingers with Spain’s, “I must ask though, how did you get Francia to agree to all this?”

Spain breathed a laugh, staring at their interwoven hands, “Actually, it was his idea.” Italy raised a brow at that and Spain laughed louder at his expression, “Yeah, I know, but I guess he was tired of my worried ramblings over the phone, and I’m sure he was a bit worried himself. Besides,” He breathed deeply, “He’s a better cook than I am and I figured that if you weren’t able to cook for yourself, you should at least have second best.”

“You,” Italy stared at the other in disbelief, “You think my cooking is better than Francia’s?”

“Shh! Not so loud Italia!” Spain whisper-shouted, laughing as he did so, “I’m not supposed to pick sides, it might actually start another war, but, just between you and I, yes.”

Italy didn’t really know what to say, so astounded, and amazed, and flattered was he that words escaped him in the moment, and as such he said nothing, just smiled to himself, looking down to his and Spain’s hands in his lap.

Their silence didn’t last long before they were talking again, Spain regaling stories of the quarantine protocols back home, of the ghostly, abandoned Italian streets they walked down, of France’s almost daily phone calls either to or from the UK, making fake gagging sounds as he spoke of their conversations, Italy laughing softly along with him, and Italy couldn’t find it in himself to lament the short length of their silence. They had their moment, and Italy was happy with that, content in the fact that it would replay in his dreams many a time more, he was sure.

It wasn’t long before France returned to the bedroom, a bowl of soup in each hand and his cell phone held precariously between his head and his shoulder, “Non, j’ai raison, tu as tort, c’est ça.” He was saying, as Italy and Spain shared a look of their own, France peering between them, brow knitted in confusion and eyes narrowed as he handed off the bowls, continuing to talk to the person on the other line, “I cannot fathom why you must always be so difficult,” He sighed, grabbing the phone with his now free hand, leaving the room with one last glance to Italy, who nodded to him with a grin and a thumbs up, to finish his conversation in private.

As soon as he was gone, Spain and Italy looked at each other, and promptly burst into laughter, at long length ending in Spain wiping tears from his eyes and a few weak coughs from Italy as they settled down again, “Ah, to be in love.” Italy said, voice dripping with saccharine sentiment, which had Spain cackling once again, leaning back in his chair.

“Oh God, don’t let either of them hear you say that,” Spain breathed between laughs.

Italy chuckled again, blowing and sipping on a spoonful of soup while Spain did the same. And, for a while, they ate in silence, enjoying each other’s company as well as the, admittedly quite good, soup, sharing glances before looking back down to their bowls.

France returned a few minutes later, bowl in hand, and sat on the end of Italy’s bed, facing the two of them and joining in their silent meal, inspecting the pair of them with a scrutinizing gaze, and Italy had to wonder if he was searching for something in particular, if he knew something they didn’t, or if Italy was just reading into it. He’d found he could never be sure when it came to France.

France was the one to break the silence, eventually, “Espagne and I were discussing earlier this afternoon, the fact that I have a few things back home I must get back to. Now that you’re feeling better, I believe it should be fine for me to return home this evening,” He looked at Spain pointedly, “Given that Espagne has offered to stay and nurse you back to health.”

Italy glanced between his friends, who seemed to be having a silent conversation right in front of him, “Oh, well, he doesn’t have to, if he, uh, has other things to do.”

France broke Spain’s gaze and smiled at Italy, “Oh no need to worry, he was quite insistent.”

“Well, if Spagna wants to stay, I certainly won’t stop him, I’ll be happy to have the company.”

France’s smile grew wider, “That’s what I told him too.”

Italy was definitely missing something here.

He didn’t ask though, he’s not sure why. Instead, he continued to eat with his friends, the three of them passing commentary on all manner of things, from nostalgic remembrances to current events, and gossip about their friends and neighbors. And, when France departed that evening, hugging Italy and Spain goodbye, he saw France whisper something in Spain’s ear, something that had Spain glance in Italy’s direction, even though he darted his eyes away quickly. France kissed them both on their cheeks before he left, Italy protesting briefly about the exposure to the virus, with France assuaging his worries by saying that if he hadn’t caught it already, he would certainly catch it on the journey back, or even in the streets of his own capital, which didn’t do much to lessen Italy’s guilt.

Spain called after France as he left, telling him to say hello to Britain for them, and France flipped him off on his way out the door, much to both Italy and Spain’s amusement.

It was just the two of them now, alone together.

“You wanna watch a movie or something?” Spain asked, as the light streaming in from the window faded into orange, then shades of twilight.

“I’d love that.” Italy responded, beaming at Spain, who returned his expression in kind, setting up his laptop on the bed, pulling up an old Western film.

And, as they watched, laughing at the corny dialogue, commenting on the bad effects, Italy felt an overwhelming gratefulness wash over him, that he was so lucky to have this. This friendship and companionship with Spain, this overly long, near immortal life in which he's been able to share so much with both Spain and France, their lives unfolding so near one another, their paths intertwined, and Italy felt he was lucky to have that. These friends, their shared Latin roots, Italy believed his life would have been much less rich without the two of them there to share it with, and he wants to believe they feel the same way. So, when he grabs Spain’s hand in the middle of the movie, he would like to believe it was only a natural progression of their relationship. And when Spain doesn’t pull away, he is far surer in his assumption.

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yeah i didn't mean for this to be over 4k words, but i loved writing italy's pov so i kind of ran away with it lmao
> 
> there will be a part II to this chapter, dont think France and Spain will be able to get away with breaking quarantine without any consequences, im eyeing that 100k case count in Spain as we speak, but that's a few chapters away now


	3. L'Art de L'Amour (Britain, France)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Britain and France have a Skype date while staying socially isolated.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im back on my bs, no surprise its brance *jazz hands*
> 
> i cant help that i love them
> 
> also, this chapter would be set a bit before the last chapter, i dont know why i didnt just switch the order, this just felt better to me

  


Britain was making a cup of tea, a common occurrence in his kitchen, which wasn’t used for much else besides putting take-out on plates or preparing eggs on mornings he convinced himself he would make productive. Or when France stayed over. Then his kitchen was used frequently and abundantly, for three meals a day unless they decided to go out. It was for that reason that Britain’s kitchen was fully stocked with a myriad of culinary tools he’d never been able to learn the names of, most of them from France’s occasional shopping spree at Sur la Table, which he loved to drag Britain to.

Personally, Britain didn’t see the appeal of an endless supply store overflowing with culinary appliances, didn’t understand why France thought they needed _another_ stand mixer (they had three already, between the two of them). But Britain knew that fully stocked, small apartment kitchens made France happy, so he didn’t complain. After all, France’s flat in Paris was ready to open its own tea shop, even though the other was much more of a coffee drinker.

He missed the scent of French press coffee in the morning. He didn’t even like coffee.

And it’s not as if he and France spent every night together, they had their own homes, and jobs, but they still spent time together fairly often, and something about not being able to do so made him want to all the more.

But travel had all but ceased entirely now, a new pandemic racing through the streets of cities and countries, and Britain, along with everyone else, was to stay indoors, only to go out for groceries or other essentials. In France it was much the same.

Britain took a cautious sip of his afternoon tea, sighing deeply, pleased with the flavor that had emerged, the bitter sweet aroma calming him like nothing else could. The early afternoon sun filtered in through the open curtains of the window above his kitchen sink, alighting the flat in soft daylight. Britain leaned against the island counter behind him, cool marble pressing into his lower back, as he closed his eyes to soak in the sun, grateful to enjoy one of the few sunny days in the UK.

This social isolation thing wasn’t _so_ bad. After all, he wasn’t being pestered by calls to in-person meetings, no need to worry about avoiding awkward small talk in public places, no uncomfortable and unfortunate run-ins with Ireland when he least expects it, or stray Americas with no sense of privacy or personal space knocking down his door. No more EU meetings, _thank God_.

Just as he was fully embracing this peace and solitude, his phone rang violently, and Britain nearly jumped out of his skin, before setting his mug onto the counter and fumbling the phone from his pocket. The ring tone was still set to the old telephone style, it was the only one he was used to after a century of the same obnoxious bell in landline after landline. He was strongly considering changing it.

France was calling. _Of course_ it would be France to ruin his moment of peace. Who else?

He answered quickly, “France?”

“Ah, Royaume-Uni, it is good to hear your voice. Comment ça va?”

“Well, I _was_ enjoying a bit of peace and quiet until you called.”

“It’s nice to hear you’re still pretending that my interruptions don’t cause you the highest of elations.” Britain could hear the smile in the other’s voice.

“You’re insufferable.”

“I love you too.”

Britain laughed despite himself, taking time to take another sip of his rapidly cooling tea. He cleared his throat quietly, “Not that I’m not happy to hear from you, but why are you calling?”

“Ah so you admit that I make you happy-”

“France.”

“Is it not enough to say I wanted to hear your voice while I’m trapped in my own home with no bakeries open for business, or cinémas to go to?”

Oh...Britain found himself rather flattered by that. “Well, I suppose,” He coughed awkwardly, “It hadn’t occurred to me that that was the reason.”

He heard France laugh on the other end, “Aw, you’re embarrassed! I hear it in your voice!”

“Wh- I am not!”

“You are!” France chuckled over the phone, “It’s cute, I think, that I can still embarrass you after two hundred years.”

“Let’s move on please.” Britain sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose.

“If we must, mon amour.” France sighed as well, over the top and melodramatic as he often was. “Are you free ce soir?”

“I haven’t made any plans to leave my government ordained shelter-in-place, no.”

“C’est super.” Britain heard the grin in his voice, “We’re having a Skype date tonight!”

“What? Why?”

France once again heaved a dramaticized sigh, “Parce que, Bretagne, there are only so many Love Island reruns I can watch all alone! Where’s your sense of romance? L’art de l’amour?”

“We are confined to our homes due to a serious outbreak, I’d hardly call that romantic.”

“In the darkest of times do we need the most light, my love. What’s the point of surviving the plague if you’re not having any fun?”

At this point, Britain didn’t know why he was fighting the idea. It did sound rather nice, after all, to spend the evening with France, if only virtually. Perhaps it was habit left over from lifetimes of literal wars, simmered down into meaningless arguing over minor things, like Skype call dinner dates. “I’m sure the victims of past plagues aren’t lamenting their lack of fun.”

“Yes, yes, Bretagne, people die, je sais. Now are you going to agree to stay in with me or must I woo you once again over the next hundred years?”

“First of all, you didn’t _woo_ me. In fact, I think it was _you_ who first fell for me.”

“Non non non, I was the first of us to _notice_ his feelings. Huge difference.”

“ _Secondly_ , I should suppose it wouldn’t hurt to see you tonight.”

“Finalement! I’ll call you at eight.”

“My time or yours?”

“Mine, obviously.”

Britain chuckled, “Until tonight, then.”

“À bientôt.”

  


* * *

  


This would not be the first virtual date they had had, as there were times when they were pulled thousands of miles and oceans away from each other, wanting to see one another and having the convenience of modern technology at their disposal, but it was not a common occurrence, especially not as they were relatively close, just unable to leave. Of course, they could, if they _really_ wanted to, there were strings they could pull, diplomatic ties they had made, jobs that might be construed as requiring travel, but they, like so many others, knew it would be better to stay inside, for as long as they could manage it, because, like so many others, they too were susceptible to the virus, and getting terribly sick was never pleasant. 

All this paranoia was reminding France of an awful lot of pandemics past, which was never a good thing.

But what was he to do about it now, when he had a date to prepare for, and a dinner for one to cook. That...sounded a lot sadder than he thought it would.

France sighed to himself, dinner would be a small affair then, maybe a soup and sandwich? That was a good staple, an iconic meal, quick and easy to prepare. If he didn’t care to make the soup overly complex, perhaps a nice bisque would do well, he may even have some left over...

God, he hoped Britain would be able to manage a decent meal on his own, as incompetent as he was in the kitchen. Maybe Britain would make the smart decision and order out, get Uber Eats to arrive with a decent meal that had a flavor profile of something better than paste, but France wouldn’t put it past him to order Nando’s if given the chance. That...actually sounded rather good at the moment, too bad there weren’t any Nando’s in the European mainland.

Maybe he should order out, get Uber Eats for himself, he had been cooking meals for himself for days now, and perhaps it was time for a change. Yes, that’s what he’ll do, order a meal from that great Italian place across the city, along the Champs-Élysées, open up a nice bottle of wine from a few decades back, talk to the most irritating, charming island nation in his immediate vicinity, that would be a wonderful night.

France did exactly that. Waiting for his food to arrive, he selected a nice Italian vintage, simply for the fact that it would pair nicely with the meal, since Italian wines were obviously far inferior to his own. He showered and styled his hair into the perfect “not trying to look good but succeeding anyway” look and picked out a casual outfit, a nice pair of dark wash jeans and sweater that was far more style than function, which he’d bought for the sole factor that it hugged his waist well, and dark brown complimented his hair. It wasn’t that he really had to try for an at-home date with Britain, who’d seen him in all various states of dishevelment before, but it was the principle of the matter, he was the epitome of one of the most fashionable nations on earth, he had a reputation to uphold.

It was 8:05 when he finally got to calling Britain, after plating his meal and pouring his wine, it was fairly remarkable that he was able to get to it nearly right on time, though it was no surprise that the first thing Britain said upon answering the call was “You’re late.”

France rolled his eyes, such a typical response from the other, so concerned was he with timeliness and punctuality in any situation, unless it was Union meetings, then he could hardly find it in himself to show up, let alone on time. God, Britain was so hypocritical, and irritating, and... Well, he looked practically delectable at the moment, France thought as he regarded the other through the video screen of his laptop. Britain was dressed simply, but elegantly, black slacks and a white button down, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows and the top two buttons left open, exposing the most enticing bit of the other’s chest, France inhaled a sharp breath, “If you were here right now, my dearest Englishman, I’d have you on the spot.”

France took deep delight in the way Britain’s eyes widened in surprise, the blush that rose up his pale cheeks, all that lack of sunlight up in the UK, “France!” He exclaimed, and oh, these weeks must be wearing on France’s libido because he felt just as he had back in the 18th century, wanting to have, but unable to touch, Britain dangling the forbidden fruit just out of arm’s reach. “Stop giving me that look France, I can see the perverted gears turning in your head.”

“Why, Grande Bretagne, I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.” France gave Britain his most innocent smile, choosing not to mention the activities he was already planning for the late evening, whether or not Britain decided to join him.

“Of course not,” It was Britain’s turn to roll his eyes now, “We’re not five minutes into dinner and you’re already propositioning me.”

“It’s the life you chose, mon cher,” France shrugged, grinning, “Everyone knows the French stereotype, and what are we if not the stereotypes of our countries?”

“You’re far more than that to me.”

Heat rose to France’s cheeks unexpectedly, because for as long as they had known each other, had been intimate, and for as experienced as France was in matters of the hearts of others, genuine statements of romantic affection like that still managed to catch him off guard. He was used to being the affectionate one, the romantic one, the one who declared love openly and unabashedly, who displayed attraction plainly and honestly, as long as it was safe to do so, and so France had never gotten used to the receiving end of such statements, and it warmed him to the core to know that he had earned that place in Britain’s heart.

Britain, who never displayed such emotion as openly as France did, who kept his heart guarded and his emotions separated as far as he could manage from his mind and self, who was not used to giving affection, or receiving it. Which was why France was able to fluster the other so easily, because deep down, Britain still had trouble truly believing France was genuine in sentiment and devotion, because Britain had convinced himself long ago that romance and desire, love and attachment were simply not in the hand he’d drawn, not meant for him. And France would do anything to convince him otherwise, and will continue to work until Britain had more faith in France’s love for him than he did in the sunrise or the stars in the sky, because life without Great Britain was not a life he knew, nor a life he wanted.

France smiled at his companion, who was looking back at him, right in front of him and 344 kilometres away, France wanting so badly to hold him, touch him, kiss him, it was a physical need in his heart and core, “I feel the same for you, Bretagne.”

For a moment they only looked at each other, eyes warm, expressions fond, before Britain eventually looked down and away with an awkward cough, and France knew they had reached the limit of Britain’s soft emotional side, a sign France should change the subject to a discussion of neutral ground, “So I know this will surprise you, but I did not cook tonight.”

“Oh?” Britain looked back to him, taking a sip from his glass of wine.

“Je sais, but I've been making meals for a week now, and my inner restaurateur was simply itching to have something prepared for me.” France took a sip from his own glass, “The service in the delivery is not the same as the restaurant experience, but it will have to do.”

“At the risk of you asking about my own meal, which I am sincerely a bit worried about, what did you order?”

France narrowed his eyes, scrutinizing the bowl in Britain’s hand through the screen, “I ordered Fettuccine Alfredo from that Italian place on the Champs-Élysées I took you to a few years back,” He watched Britain nod idly, as if recalling a vague memory, “I paired it with a Pinot Grigio, though if I didn’t want to keep with an Italian theme, I would’ve paired it with a Chardonnay. You must tell me though...what are you having for dinner?”

Britain sighed, looking at France through the screen, his expression spoke of an immense disappointment that France had asked, accepting of the inevitable question as well as the inevitable ashamed response, which France thought was rather over the top, it couldn’t possibly be that bad, even if he’d ordered out at a less than Michelin rated restaurant, or made his staple of mashed potatoes and beef or a similarly flavorless English dish, “It’s, uh, it’s instant ramen.”

Oh. It really was that bad. “Pardon? I’m sorry, Grande Bretagne, once the greatest overseas empire on earth, it sounded like you just told me that you were eating _instant ramen_.”

“Excuse me France, what’s this ‘once’ business, I’ll have you know-”

“Oh arrête, s’il te plaît, none of us are empires anymore, I’d hardly count the Commonwealth just as I wouldn’t count L’Organisation Internationale de la Francophonie. You were _once_ the greatest empire, that is all the ego you deserve tonight.” France took a bite of his meal, the flavor melting in his mouth deliciously, he continued, “Especially seeing as you’re eating instant ramen en ce moment, like some kind of broke college student, as though your accomplished chef and incredibly French lover isn’t right in front of you!”

“Alright, alright France, I won’t have ramen next time, my God. You’re not even physically here and you’re judging my food.”

France smiled, but it was soft and melancholic, “I wish I was there.” 

Britain mirrored his expression, “I wish you were too.”

France’s smile grew, though it didn’t lose its bittersweet edge, as he lamented that he’d grown so overly soft over the years. Not that he hadn’t been the more emotional of the two of them before, but it was different now, and France was no longer as grand and great as he once was, no longer truly feared or formidable, no longer did he sail the seven seas with abandon nor march through armies and battlefields with the inflated pride he once had. He’d grown tired, and he’d grown _soft_. And he blamed Great Britain for the entirety of the second part, and in half for the first. But he didn’t regret it.

It was hard to regret it. While he was in _love_ and all.

“What are you thinking about Love?” Britain’s voice carried through the room, only slightly distorted by the electronic connection and nonetheless the same low tenor with which France was intimately familiar.

He hummed, “Toi.”

“Ah, the greatest of subjects.” Britain quipped with a smirk, and France laughed lightly.

They spoke for an indeterminate amount of time, tens of minutes, but probably hours, about all manner of things that came to mind. And despite their somewhat mundane lives within the confines of their homes, their stories were lively and compelling as they told them, Britain speaking of the strange, paranoid behavior of the public, the slow response from his government in conspiratorial tones, France responding by regaling a trip he took to the supermarket as he might describe one of his many valiant battles under Napoleon. They discussed America’s even further active incompetantance under his new administration in response to the virus, sympathetic to his situation, but not above laughing at his plight, having once been similarly under equipped for these situations and under leaders they’d rather do away with. 

They worried for their friends and neighbors, those far more heavily afflicted with the pandemic as it currently stood, France took the opportunity to complain about Spain’s well-founded, if not a tad tedious to listen to, concerns for Italy, sharing his thoughts on the nature of Spain’s feelings for the other with Britain in hushed tones, even if there was no one to overhear them. France shared that he planned to visit Italy with Spain in the next few days, if not to check on his friend, then to put an end to Spain’s increasingly agitated overthinking. Britain stressed his disapproval of it, that it went against government ordinance, that it wasn’t smart or safe, but France replied that Britain’s approval or lack there of wouldn’t change his mind, though it was sweet for the other to worry. Britain rolled his eyes, but told him to be safe all the same.

As the evening turned to night, their bowls empty, and their bottles close to it, Britain admitted to a creeping dread and uneasiness he was beginning to feel over the whole state of affairs, and France confessed the same, having felt the slimy, slithering anxiety intermingle with the haunting memories of the past. Sharing recollections of the Black Death from oh so long ago, talking about more recent frightening pestilence, from the Spanish Flu after the Great War, to the smallpox outbreaks in the 16th century, they found solace in their shared feelings, both relishing and regretting the chance to remember the past, as was so often the case.

“I worry that this may be the end of an era, it’s starting to look awfully apocalyptic.” Britain whispered.

“The end of an era, or maybe the start of something new, cher Bretagne.” France replied, pouring the last of his Italian wine into his glass.

“Ever the revolutionary I see.” Britain said, a ghost of a smile playing on his lips.

“But of course.”

Their conversation continued not much longer after that, the rest of their discussion lighthearted but not without an air of the unspoken, a pointless distraction that France welcomed easily, and was sure Britain enjoyed as well. 

When, eventually, they said their goodbyes, France regretted the loss near immediately, the empty apartment feeling that much more isolated and cold, without the small bit of ‘normal’ he felt while talking to Britain. And, after all was said and done, after the dishes were washed, and he’d readied for bed, climbing under the thin spring duvet he’d pulled out of the closet a week ago, he found it remarkably hard to relax, to sleep.

As he’d done so often before, in these situations, he called Britain, regardless of the fact they’d been speaking less than an hour ago. Britain picked up after two rings.

“Trouble sleeping, Love?”

France smiled, holding the phone close to his ear, breathing in the voice on the other end of the line, “Like you would not believe.”

He heard a breath of a laugh from the other, “Me too.”

They were quiet for a short while, France listening to the rhythm of Britain’s breathing over the phone, soaking up the familiar solace and relief in the simple presence of his old enemy, then friend, then something even more. “Will you stay?” He whispered into the phone in his hand, the darkness of the room around him swallowing the sound of his voice.

“Toujours, my dear.”

  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i am so sorry, i think its actually a condition at this point, i cannot resist the urge to write brance fluff
> 
> thank you all for reading :)
> 
> in other news, this is the last of the prewritten chapters, but not to worry, more are coming kind of sort of soon, the next chapter will be america's pov i believe so stay tuned for that. also, eventually, ill have a couple more chapters on these two, cant let them have too much fluff after all, gotta bring out that angst

**Author's Note:**

> i have no idea how long this fic will go on for, but i am open to writing other characters/ships should any of you want to see some


End file.
